


Making A Sound

by gustin_puckerman



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Child Neglect, Gay Male Character, M/M, Self-Harm, Social Anxiety, Suicide Attempt, also there's gayness, basically a lot of trigger, but the main point is: connor didn't die and somehow evan will become his friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 06:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11225649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gustin_puckerman/pseuds/gustin_puckerman
Summary: Evan and Connor like a lot of things about one another, but things don't always start out that way.My version of the AU wherein after a week of Connor freaking out over the fact Evan wrote something about his sister, they somehow became friends.





	Making A Sound

**Author's Note:**

> I told myself, "Bella, you can't do this. You seriously suck at multi-chaptered _anything_ " but then I was like, "Fight me, self." And here we are. In any case, if you're confused (or not), I sort of wrote this one-shot two days ago that, at that time, was just something I did on a whim, like I hadn't meant to expand the universe of _that particular AU I was writing the one-shot in_ during the hours I should be sleeping, but well. Again: here we are.
> 
> Of course, read or not reading the one-shot shouldn't make much of a difference, so if you don't feel like going back to find it, it's fine. If you wanna, [check them out here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11216598) (they're also on tumblr and reaching, like, 100+ notes, which is _unbelievable_ for just one fanfic, but it's hella nice so thanks so much). In any case, hello readers, I'm Bella, Connor is gay, and here is your 2983749 rendition of the AU wherein Connor didn't die.

Connor's eyes are  _burning_.

That should be like, impossible, whatever, and like, maybe poetic, but it's not, it's just hot and fiery and  _burning_ and nothing makes sense and is he crying? Connor doesn't know, he feels like something is wet too, but he's pretty sure his eyeballs are just mainly on fire and if there's fire then why should anything be wet because everything is hot and on  _fire_  and oh my fucking god, Connor just wants to _die_.

He should breathe. How many times have he been in this state, really? How many times have he yelled that phrase over and over again, just yelling, but nobody ever hearing it, cause he's just that  _attention-seeking garbage_ that nobody ever wanted, right? He should be like, an expert at this. Should know all of the steps to those breathing exercises or whatever and calm his own shit down because  _obviously_  nothing is on fire and if it's on fire wouldn't that make it impossible for Connor to see the road and control the wheels and oh. _Oh_. That's where he is, he realises this now, he's driving and swivelling and drifting and is he even driving if the only thing he does is just pressing his foot directly on the gas so he can go and go and go—

—and slam into something, maybe. A tree, a wall. _Anything_.

He's so  _stupid_ , he thinks. Fucking Evan Hansen. "Now we both can pretend we have friends." As if.  _As-fucking-if._ Like, who gives a shit? Really? WHO GIVES A GODDAMN FUCK CERTAINLY NOT EVAN GOD FUCKING HANSEN GOD HE IS SO STUPID HE SHOULD'VE SEEN IT COMING SHOULD'VE SEEN IT FROM MILES AWAY BECAUSE HE'S A FREAK OF NATURE A FUCKING ABNORMAL AN ABERRATION HE DOESN'T BELONG HERE DOESN'T BELONG ANYWHERE NOT EVEN IN HIS OWN SKIN WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH HIM WHAT THE _FUCK_ —

And maybe the Gods are like, some fucking prankster lord knows, because one minute Connor _swears_  all he's doing is just pedalling his car right to — _anywhere, everywhere, nowhere_ — as long as it's not back to that fucking school where everybody is waiting with their prying eyes and twisting mouths ready to call him a freak, some waste of space, but then there's a tree and it's like, god, fuck, _yes_ , finally, he's going to die, except his brain disagrees or something because it's stupid and instead of racing forward all Connor does is turn his wheel just right and then the left side of his car is dented, _smashed_ into the bark, and there're glasses shattered, some piercing his skin and it hurts _so fucking much_ , and just. 

Fuck.

 _Fuck_.

Well. Another one golden star to add to the many adventures of his fuck-ups, he supposes. What else is new?

Just when he thought it couldn't get worse, Connor could feel the familiar surge of panic and regret and guilt and depression (aka yesterday's god awful dinner, to be honest) swelling up in his throat like tsunami, ready to topple over and Connor is scrambling to get the door open — except there's a fucking tree now making home against the side of his car, like some goddamn extension of the vehicle, and Connot can't fucking push it no matter what he does (or maybe that's because his hands are trembling everywhere and that's always _fantastic_ ) and he's trying to crawl now, to the passenger seat, to the goddamn door, except he couldn't actually make it and—

There goes dinner. Orange and murky and. Shit, the _smell_.

At least he knew Cynthia would have a ballpark nagging about this to him later. Pretending like she gave a shit. Like she's more than a fucking trophy wife to Larry. God, how are they even  _related?_ Obviously none of them wanted to be, like, biologically linked to one another. Less of all them to  _Connor_. "He's just doing it for attention, for God's sake," his dad's voice pierces through, and Connor casually throws up some more, until all he does is dryly heaving into the already disgusting digested food flowing down the floorboard of the passenger's seat. His chest hurts, his head pounds and he's pretty sure he's bleeding somewhere around his cheek where glasses actually manage to pierce through the skin but who the fuck gives a _shit_ , right?

Connor leans back only to realise some of his hair has been caught in the vomit and cringes. 

* * *

He manages to get to his house, somehow, with one door short and it's like — fuck. Connor doesn't know if that's some god fucking luck or the worst thing ever because how the fuck do these things even happen, like what did Connor even _do_ in his past life to deserve such a fucking fate, but on another hand, the vomit is gross as shit and more than anything? The air outside as he's slowly driving back to his house makes it pleasant for him to breathe normally and not, like, have a second round of puking contest just because Cynthia fucked up dinner last night and Connor had somehow managed to swallow them all only to let them all out again.

Thankfully, nobody's home. Go figures.

His mom's probably doing palates or yoga or whatever shit she does when she's not nagging, Larry's being an asshole somewhere to someone like whatever, he can go fuck himself and Connor wouldn't give a shit truthfully, and Zoe's probably like — _fuck_. Being lusted over Hansen or something and that's fucking gross, like what the _fuck_ , and Connor feels stupid all over again because really? _That_ was the guy he'd wanted to "pretend to be friends with"? God, he's so useless.

Such a fuck up. _Such a fuck up_.

Like, can't he do _one_ thing right? For once? Jesus christ.

Connor could feel the weight of the letter — _Dear Evan Hansen_ — crumpled in the pocket of his worn jacket as he leaves his car parked askew on the pavement and trail up across the yard to the house. There is something wet trickling down his face, he realises as he reaches the door, and Connor's not surprised to touch his sharp cheekbones only to realises that there're glasses sticking from it, and his fingers — _red_. He's bleeding.

Ah, so not only his head pounds on the inside, his whole entire face is _fucked_ too.

Fantastic! Magnificent! He wonders what more can he messes up now? What more can make Larry sigh that pitiful sigh and roll his eyes like Connor's some five year old throwing a tantrum about a toy he refuses to get for him for Christmas.

Connor pushes himself instead and goes straight upstairs. The razor he hides in his drawers are calling to him, he knows, and his arm itches from where he's last touched them, sliced them — weeks ago — and it's so. _Fucked_. He's so fucked. But does it matter? It _doesn't_. Because nobody would care anyway. Nobody, not Larry, not Cynthia, not Zoe, not the school and not anybody and Connor more than knows it. 

Two hours later, Cynthia climbs up the stairs with anger bursting at her seams. Her face red either from the exhilaration of the yoga class or the fact she spots Connor's car, damaged and stained with an awful stench, nobody could tell. The bathroom's light is flicked open and Cynthia glares, stomping over, twisting the knob, pushing open, "Connor Francis Albert  _Murphy_ , what is your car—" only to _scream_.

All she could describe hours later is red, red, _red_. 

* * *

 

Connor's jacket is crumpled by the corner of the bathroom, and a letter is peeking out from the pocket. 

The story begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Connor deals a lot with self-hatred, bruh. In any case, (1) I legit cannot guarantee the lengths of each chapter will be the same. Sometimes I write a lot, sometimes I write little. It happens. (2) I have half an idea where I should take this story towards, but the other half is just me making it up as I go. So, bear with me.
> 
> Thanks for reading. Leave some kudos or comments if you wanna, and make sure to stay healthy you guys. I appreciate you. Sincerely, me.


End file.
